


Glass Slippers

by JJ_Jupiter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Creampie, Dean Winchester Gives Oral Sex, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Exhibitionism, Exhibitionist Dean Winchester, F/M, First Time, Het, Heterosexual Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Porn With Plot, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series John Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 09:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21455467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ_Jupiter/pseuds/JJ_Jupiter
Summary: Set pre-series, the fall of 1999.  Dean takes a little trip.  Adult rating for sex, lots of bad language, mentions of violence, harassment, non-con, assault.  Supernatural meets Bonnie & Clyde. Kind of.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	Glass Slippers

**Author's Note:**

> Dean is twenty in this, if my math is correct.

* 

  
  


His boss is an asshole. A sleazy, racist, meathead asshole, but he's the boss and he's got about fifty pounds on Dean and even though Dean's pretty certain he could get a couple of hits in and out-run the pudgy bastard, he _ needs _ to keep this job. Dad's the one who made the deal with guy, bonding over their Corps tattoos and sweet talkin' till Dean was a slave for the summer rather than convict, and far be it from Dean to turn his father into a liar. So he's gonna take the shit and keep his head down.

Then maybe douse the place with gasoline and flick a match on it the night Dad does eventually decide to haul their asses outta town.

So far he's mopped the floors, washed the dishes, taken out the trash, burned the fries, burned himself four times on the fucking oven door, cleaned out the grease traps, broken a plate and scrubbed the grill all between being the only guy waiting tables out front whenever the bell rings and announces more hungry tourists have arrived.

"And when you're done with that, the men's room could use some attention, _ Cinderella._"

Dean opens his mouth to tell the guy to go fuckin' piss up a rope, to tell him there's no way in hell he's stepping foot in the customer bathroom without full haz-mat gear _ let alone _ cleaning anything up in there, but the guy knows it, arches a smug eyebrow, pulls the ' _ or you want me to call the cops on your breaking and entering ass instead, kid?' _ face, so Dean bites his lip and strips off his apron, grabs the only pair of rubber gloves in the place (they're pink, and ain't that just swell) and goes to reanimate the mouldy old mop and bucket.

He gags when he swings into the men's room and gets a blast of warm stale piss, _ eau de god knows what else_, grits his teeth and pulls his t-shirt collar up over his nose.

The next day is pretty much the same. And the day after that. And the day after that is even worse.

*

He's a week in and ready to throw himself in front of speeding traffic when he slouches into the kitchen one morning to find himself met with surfaces that're already shiny and a floor already squeaky clean underfoot. He finds the reason leaning outside the fire door, soaking in the morning rays and blowing smoke rings at a jet in the sky. She startles when she senses him coming, drops her cigarette. He nods a question at her from the doorway.

"Hey. Hey, Jesus, you scared the shit outta me," she chuckles, blushes a little, but she's not embarrassed enough not to pick her cig back up. "You the guy he caught breakin' in to his warehouse?"

"Yeah," Dean admits, sizing her up. She looks like an ally so far but he can't be too careful. Young, younger than him by a bit. Curvy. Dressed like she just came in from the city; gold jewellery on and a tank top with a brand name stretched across the (impressive) tits and underneath the apron folded around her waist she's wearing tight dark jeans that look expensive. It's all gonna get ruined in here before lunchtime.

"Dean," he says, watching her savour the last drag. She squints at him as she flicks the butt away.

"Cecilia," she says, following him back inside. "Cee. I'm his fuckin' niece," she tacks on, making a face like the words taste sour. She has a yankee accent; all her words compact, slightly clipped. Extremely liberal use of the word ‘fuck’ in all its forms as he soon finds out. 

Turns out she's just as much a prisoner as he is, dumped here by her 'rents for the last few weeks of summer break while they pack off to the south of France and if there's one thing _ Uncle Eddie _ seems to dislike more than Dean, it's baby-sitting extended family in the form of a teenage girl.

He starts forgetting to torture Dean, instructing her to do the cleaning instead, snide comments about it _ building character, fuck knows you need some with parents as fuckin' wet as yours, maybe it'll be good for the princess to be taken down a peg or two? _ She doesn't complain, but she talks back, vibrant combinations of name calling when Uncle Eddie's backing out of ear shot, she does the job, serving her sentence the way Dean decided he was gonna do, 'cept she's solemn about it. Bitchy and cranky and short tempered with the customers. Anti-social.

Gets herself relegated to _ kitchen only _ before long for spilling a cold drink on a guy, but it works out okay 'cause Dean always ends up laughing, flirting his way through the troops of old ladies coach-bound for the bingo halls and giving the truckers free refills, warning for roadblocks and jams that've been on the radio. He probably makes twice the tips she ever did.

He starts watching her when he should be working, can't help it, ends up mixing up orders more often with his head in the clouds, having to charm his way out of trouble. She doesn't buy his bullshit, rolls her eyes and calls him a '_ fuckin' useless tool' _, but she fixes up all his mistakes, never tells. 

He repacks the napkin holders, chews the inside of his cheek. Uncle Eddie's prowling around someplace so Dean can't make it too obvious that he's watching Cee wipe down tables, leaning and stretching to reach the edges. She's started wearing shorts, her calves and bare shoulders all pinked up with sunburn and it's like walking right into a fuckin' wet dream some days.

His brain keeps flipping to disjointed fantasies of him pinning her to one of those damn tables, reaching around to wriggle his hand into the split of her zipper and burning his fingers in that amicable little fire he _ knows _ is gotta be going between her legs. Thinks about hearing her cry out, beg his name, all those pleased mewls she wouldn't have to stifle.

*

She joins him on his lunch break on Thursday, slams out of the steel door and rummages through her pockets for her Camels, mutters, "_Fuckin' greasy big-mouthed prick_," as she sparks one up. He watches her relax against the brick with her eyes closed, two long grey tendrils of smoke curling from her nostrils.

Dean smirks, throws his crusts for the pigeons and wipes his hands on his jeans, moves in until he's inhaling her fumes.

"Aren't you a little young to be hooked like this?" he asks, picking the cigarette from between her lips and tapping the ash off. She straightens, brings her hands up to his chest to stop him when he presses closer and traps her a little. He can’t wait any more. She watches him take a drag, frowns like she's gonna protest when he stubs it out against the wall by her head.

"I'm eighteen," she insists. A little older than he thought, good, and he presses close enough that her tits flatten against his sternum. It's a swarm, down through his belly, filling his cock up good and urgent and he pushes against her so she can feel it too, slips his hands 'round her waist to reel her in tight, bumps his lips against hers until she lets out a little sound and opens up for him and pulls him as close as she can get him by his belt loops.

Their kisses taste like sweet acidic smoke and coarse tongue and they grind like that, nudging and rubbing and enjoying, scraping denim against the wall until there's a rattling from the kitchen, familiar swearing, and they pop apart. Dean stares at her mouth as she wipes at it, watches her chest move where she's breathing so heavy. She looks up at him like he's just shocked the hell out of her.

*

Doesn't take more than a couple of days for Uncle Eddie to notice a shift of focus, he doesn't warn Dean off but he lets loose with the little gleeful barbs that can't possibly go unmentioned, shit Dean only responds to with eyerolls and a set jaw. 

Cee gets it a lot worse than he does, comes out of encounters with her uncle red faced and flustered. It seems to get under her skin more and more and she snaps, once, in the middle of a busy Friday afternoon rush, yells, rips her apron off and demolishes a pyramid of clean coffee cups on her way out. Dean watches with everyone else from across the diner as a sickly smile wriggles onto the old bastard's face in her wake, triumphant.

He takes advantage of it. She's angrier, more forceful with herself and he takes the opportunity to explore a little more boldly with his hands when they're making out after he finds her around the side of the building. It's starting to get darker earlier, the air's chilled, smells like gasoline from the auto-shop across the way and he bites her bottom lip and puts a palm over one of her tits, squeezes to see what happens.

She likes it, _ Mmmmmns _ into his mouth and doesn't hinder when he drags a hand down her belly to the hem of her top, slips it underneath carefully, testing permission. She encourages him, her own hands jammed into his back pockets, kneading his ass, drawing him against her harder the higher his fingers travel up her ribs.

"God, _please,_" she whispers, a little flutter, edging her herself against his thigh, trying to be discreet about how much she wants the friction.

"You like that?" It's out of his mouth before he has a chance to think about it, automatic. He pushes his thigh up into the furnace between her legs, thumbs kneading over her tits. She shifts against his pressure, thankful, grips the back of his neck.

"Yeah?" he asks, grabbing her ass to keep her rocking against his leg, cruel 'cause he knows it can't be enough; the frustrating rub from the seam of her jeans. She scratches down the back of his shirt, nods for him.

"That, yeah -" she stutters, arching, offering. He dips his head to nuzzle her breast, latches over her nipple through the scratchy fabric of her bra and sucks, hard, till she whines and jerks her hips against him, pinches at his hair painfully. 

"Winchester!” they hear Uncle Eddie bark from inside. “Break time's over, delivery ain't gonna unload itself, asshole!"

Cee knocks her head back against the wall and growls, angry. 

*

He has weekends off, one of Dad's conditions, so he doesn't see her. They kill a moth man two towns over in the 'burbs on Saturday night, takes all three of them to plug the thing; him and Sam kneeling on its wings, trying to keep it pinned while Dad pounds iron nails into both of its eyes. They're back in time for a late Sunday dinner and Sam even drinks a celebratory beer with them. Same old.

* 

Monday is frantic, there's a new guy with long hair who doesn't say much but apparently makes a mean espresso. Uncle Eddie mans the office all day, making calls and occasionally coming out to greet guys in pinstripe suits; they have tattooed knuckles and necks and give everyone the stink eye. He orders Dean to bring'em all iced teas.

Cee is lesser seen, barely acknowledges anyone, sweaty and aggravated and workin' the kitchen alone except for when she yells for '_Felix, you stupid tree-huggin' bastard, you wanna get in here and take care of these fuckin' potatoes before I shove'em up your goddamn' ass, you fuckin' lace curtain loser. _'

Dean woofs a laugh, surprised and impressed, has to apologise to the appalled faces at table six. Felix slouches through the kitchen moments later, sack of potatoes on his shoulder, slow grin on his face. 

He hears her laughing ten minutes before closing, alien sound but it washes out everything else when she lets it loose, draws attention like a peacock fanning its feathers, makes him grin to himself even as table nine waves him over, sends his meal back and walks 'cause he _ hasn't got time to deal with anymore of this incompetence. _

Dean smirks, watches the guy strut off and then locks the door behind him, flips the sign. Takes the meal back and sticks his head in the serving window.

"You put ketchup on this," he says, nudging the plate back towards her side.

Cee lifts the edge of the bun to inspect the innards. "I sure did," she agrees, faux cheery, raises one eyebrow at him like he's stupid and gets back to goading at the burgers she's waiting on with the tip of the spatula till they hiss angrily in their juices. 

She acts like she hates him but she's grilling those burgers for him to take home. Dean sighs, stretches through to snag the order from the spike. He doesn’t usually go for a mean girl, but there’s something about her that makes him competitive, like he wants to conquer her. 

"I said no ketchup, I wrote it down," he smooths the paper out so they can both see it, taps on it for emphasis, "see? Right there in black and white,” he points at his handwriting. 

She narrows her eyes, snatches the paper up for a closer inspection.

"Well how the fuck was I supposed to know? Your writing is fucking _ atrocious _," she enunciates and Dean smirks at her, victorious. She levels a blank look at him, scratches at something gone crusty near her elbow, mashed potato probably. 

He _ uh-huhs _ at her, leans further into the tight square window, challenging. She swipes the paper off the counter.

He heads for the kitchen doors, his belly a ridiculous orchestra of sensation as he crosses into her territory. She watches him come, spatula in hand and arms folded, looking wholly uninterested. She’s so stubborn, difficult, downright fucking_ bitchy _ and he wants her so bad it hurts him. 

"Do you want me to fix a new fuckin' sandwich or what?" she snaps. 

He steps up to her quickly, goes right for her throat to suck the thin skin between his teeth and is gratified to hear that she actually gasps, he hears the spatula go clattering off as she grips his forearms and tips her head for him on reflex, offers him all the room he wants. He sucks harder, rewarding with his tongue and chasing to a new spot before he can leave a mark, well practiced, scorching a hidden map into her neck as she slots herself against him.

"Nuh-uh, we're closin' up early," he informs, reaching past her to turn off the grill. He watches the goose bumps rise over her collarbone, goes with it when she sits her ass against the worktop and yanks at him to get him close enough. Can't help the laugh that chokes out of him, pleased at how she wants him. Feels her handprints slide up his shirt and graze over his stomach, feels her nails dig in and listens to her content little sighs against his cheek and man, she's a pussy cat really. He can't help telling her so. 

"Not so tough all the time, huh? Purr like a kitten when I put my mouth on you."

She huffs out a breath against his neck, annoyed, and he grins, starts thumbing her shirt up, up, light knuckles brushing over her skin till she arches and nips her teeth at his earlobe. Jesus, that gets him going so good, how do girls always know to go for his ears? He sucks firmly at her jugular in retaliation, ends up with her hands down the back of his pants for his trouble, more encouraging little breaths the harder he draws on her skin. He senses a pattern here.

"You wannit so bad, don'tcha? Look at you."

She shifts back this time, reaches up and stills his jaw when he tries to follow after her mouth.

"Christ, would you shut up? I just want - I just want -" 

"What? You want me to what?" he says, dipping a hand between her spread thighs and pressing against the denim, dragging a thumbnail over the seam. 

"You want my fingers?" he whispers, catching her eye. "You want my mouth on your tits again, huh? You liked that. Tell me."

"Dean -" she starts, but then she doesn't know how to finish, words wilting when he assumes control of her hand, pulls it from where she's clinging to his shirt and settles it over the front of his jeans. He uses her hand to press and stroke at his fly, teasing and testing the thick growing mystery of him underneath and fuck. _ Fuck _. 

He catches her eye before he kisses her again, quick and glinting, and hopes she understands it's some kind of permission, a line begging to be crossed. 

She fumbles the button on his jeans open and he hears himself let out a soft, grateful sound, reaches down to help; hooking his thumb in his boxers and pushing those away, too. The sight of her staring down at his dick, the reverence on her face, sends things tumbling and spiralling around under his navel, vines leeching and curling up under his ribcage. 

“I want…-” she starts, dropping to her knees, fingers curling around him possessively, “-you to fuck my mouth.” Punctuated perfectly by her rubbing her closed lips over the head of his cock, her eyes slipping shut. Her lips part and he feels the first hot, wet touch from her tongue and knows this isn’t gonna last as long as he would like.

“You got it,” he pants, and her eyes lock back on his as his palm slips around to cup the back of her head. 

*

  
  


He drops her off a block away from the house she’s staying at with Uncle Eddie, both of them agreeing that it’s unwise to give the man any more ammo. She comes around to the driver’s side and pokes her head in the window to kiss him goodbye and he doesn't want her to go yet. 

“How about you let me take you out some time? ” he asks using his most charming grin. No way he’s gonna play any games here; he likes her and that was the best blow job of his life. She grins back.

“As long as it doesn't involve a greasy disgusting fucking diner, I’m in.”

*

  
  


He yells, “Dinner!” when he gets home. Dumps the burgers and fries in the middle of their small kitchen table. It only has three chairs, by fate. 

Sam eats and studies at once, barely lifting his nose from his extra credit summer reading. Dad isn’t as distracted, for once, and runs an appraising eye over Dean.

“What are you looking so smug about?” Dad asks, squirting out a pool of mayonnaise. Dean can’t even help it, he knows the smile on his face is lecherous.

“Got a blow job from the boss’s niece,” Dean shrugs, basking in his afterglow. 

"Doesn't that guy _ already _ hate you?" Sam asks, suddenly interested. Dean purses his lips, pulls his best innocent face. 

"Stay _ out _ of trouble, Dean," Dad warns, pointing a fry at him, threat clear. 

*

He whistles on his way in to work the next morning, notices a light on already above the serving window and wonders if she’s come in early so they can squeeze a little extra foreplay in before the service starts. Who could blame her, right? 

It becomes apparent within seconds that things are not okay after he slips out back through the heavy fire exit door. Cee is there; sitting knees up, back against the wall by the dumpster, she’s holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers and her hands are trembling visibly. Dark, thick framed Dior sunglasses hide most of her face making it impossible to read her expression; he's seen them lying around the diner, expensive and totally out of place. 

As he gets closer he notices what look like ligature marks on her neck. He stops dead, his brain immediately trying to catalogue weapons in reach. His favourite Beretta’s in the glove box in the car out front.

“What’s going on?” he asks, blood starting to run cold. 

“I’m in big trouble,” she says, voice rasping and cracking a little, “and so are you, you need to get out of here, Dean.”

He sits down next to her, back against the wall. 

“Tell me everything,” he demands.

So she tells him. Tells him how when she’d gotten home last night, Uncle Eddie had something to show her in his office and had then proceeded to play her crystal clear security footage, with audio, on his computer of exactly what she and Dean had been up to in the kitchen. She tells him how Uncle Eddie told her he was gonna make three copies of the tape; one for Dean’s father, one for her father, and one for the press. 

“The _ press_?” Dean interrupts, incredulous.

She tells him that her father is a member of the European parliament and her older brother is about to run for re-election as governor of New York next month.

“I know we didn't do anything wrong, Dean, we’re both consenting adults, right? But a tape like that ending up in the press would ruin my whole family.”

She tells him she couldn't let that happen so as soon as she got the opportunity, as soon as Uncle Eddie made the mistake of thinking it was okay to sleep, she crept downstairs just before dawn, poured a bottle of his favourite bourbon all over the computer, all of the files in his desk, and threw her lighter on it. 

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, stunned or impressed, mind whirring. 

“Whole office went up,” Cee says, voice fearful. She takes her sunglasses off carefully and her left eye is swollen shut, purple and painful. “Smoke alarm woke him.”

She tells him that after Uncle Eddie managed to put the fire out, he found her with her shit packed, halfway out of an upstairs bedroom window. She hadn’t planned ahead well enough or been nearly fast enough. 

“He took my stuff and locked me in and said he was gonna call the cops, have me arrested for arson. He said he’s gonna report you too, for the B&E. Your deal is off, so you need to get the hell out of here before he notices I’m gone.”

She tells him how she came to the diner instead of getting the fuck outta town because she knows the security system feeds through his office here, and links up at home, but the office door is locked (deadbolt and padlocked) and she can’t break it down. 

“So… I’m basically screwed,” she laments, flicking the sunglasses back on.

Dean takes a moment to let it all sink in. He knows there are some glaring holes in her story but they can get to that later when there’s more time. Figures she must already have a record otherwise she would go to the police herself; she can definitely afford a decent lawyer and it's clear she's been seriously assaulted, could probably even go for attempted murder with those marks on her neck. She wants to run instead though. She's scared. Uncle Eddie definitely has cop friends in this town. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he starts, getting up and pulling her to her feet. “I’m gonna break into the office and take the hard drive and you’re gonna empty the register, then the safe. We’re gonna get in my car and we’re gonna drive north until we hit the border.”

Her breath hitches and she stares at him, aghast, but only for a moment. 

Dean makes short work of the padlock, the deadbolt is a joke, _ an insult _, and the key to the safe is intelligently hung on a hook on the back of the office door. He rips the hard drive out from its roots and shoves the rest of the computer equipment off the desk for good measure. The destruction feels good, euphoric, and he has a flashback to his first day at this dump and the urge he had to burn the whole place down… he considers it again... but he’s not that reckless. Criminal arson is a serious charge. He needs to keep his head. 

*

He drives for five hours before he stops to use a payphone. 

“We got five minutes, so if you need to pee, go now,” he instructs Cee, already dialling his dad’s number. John picks up on the second ring. 

“Which direction did you tell them we would head?”

John snorts. “I said you would head to Mexico to get married. I told them she’s pregnant.”

Dean laughs out loud. “Alright. I’ll call you when we get to Tijuana,” he hesitates, then, “thanks, Dad.”

“I’ll expect a full debrief,” John says, tone serious, and the line clicks off. 

*

  
  


Dean changes the plates on the car with practised ease, keeps heading north, he tells Cee they’ll stop when they’re in Kansas, just to be safe. She nods, sunglasses still on even though the sun is starting to go down. Her diamond stud earrings glint at him in the fading light. 

“So what did he want?” he finally broaches the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue all day. He can see the more miles he puts in the rearview the more her body relaxes. She stopped shaking an hour ago. She tilts her head at him, questioning. 

“He was blackmailing you, so what did he want? What was the price for him to not release the tape?” he presses.

“You’ve seen the way he looks at me,” she says, immediately defensive. It’s the answer Dean was dreading but had known in his gut was coming. 

“He wanted to... fuck you?” he feels the disgust in his tone, rising in his throat. She turns her gaze away from him, pointedly stares out of the window. 

“He wanted what you got. Wanted me to suck his dick... Plus a fifty grand.”

“Jeez,” Dean whistles. 

“My parents would have bartered him down to twenty-five, probably,” she says it with no humour, all business, words fogging up the glass. 

Dean feels his head shaking; he’s revolted. Monsters he kinda gets, but _ people_? Fucking loathsome. 

*

Neither of them have a change of clothes but they have about two thousand dollars in stolen cash, more than enough for a Chinese take out dinner (that Cee picks at pathetically while Dean inhales his), basic hygiene products and a hotel room for the night under the name Mick Fleetwood & Guest. 

Dean painstakingly dissects the battered disk drive while Cee takes a shower. The disc inside appears undamaged and, like magic, it plays on their room’s built in TV/DVD player. He fast forwards through hours of boring footage before finally the two of them appear on screen, making out against the kitchen counter. 

Cee joins him on the foot of the bed, hotel robe swallowing her, and they both watch and listen, mortified and thrilled. 

“Kind of a shame we have to get rid of this,” Dean mourns, clearing his throat. The footage is obscene and amazing. He watches himself climax on screen, watches her throat flutter delicately as she swallows, her audible moan as she takes it all. He will never get the images out of his head. Spank bank for life. 

“What, you don’t want the real thing anymore ‘cause I’m fuckin’ grotesque now?” Cee snaps, gesturing at her face, the horrific black eye.

“I want you,” he assures her, voice dropping an octave without meaning to. “Your eye is kind of gross though,” he admits, only half joking. 

The swelling hasn't gone down much and he’s starting to worry that something might be broken._ Seven different bones form the eye socket _ he hears Sam’s voice recite in his head. He takes a minute to examine her coin slot of an eye; pressing gingerly with his thumbs around the swollen parts, over the curve of her cheek and brow, and hopes they aren't dealing with a blowout. 

Unconcerned, her eye that he can still see rolls at him like he’s a big drama queen. 

They agree to an ice pack and a game of truths with shots from the world’s tiniest mini-bar whiskey bottles. It’s been one hell of a fucking day and they are officially fugitives and Dean does not examine why he kind of just feels like he’s taking a vacation. 

He gives up some of his wrap sheet first; trespassing, shoplifting, criminal damage, assault, resisting. None of it has stuck yet, he tells her with a wink. He gets away with a hell of a lot more than that, too. 

In exchange she admits she just finished three months of community service (which is why she wasn't invited on the family holiday this year) on a reduced charge after she drove a guy’s new Jaguar in to his swimming pool. 

“He pissed me off,” she explains, crooking her fingers in to air quotes, “the judge said I have _ ‘anger management problems’_.”

Dean laughs and their bottles crash together dangerously in mid air as they salute one another, down another shot. 

*

The whiskey doesn't work as well as he hoped and the panic attack he’s been anticipating explodes into being at around 3am. He’s already awake, instincts so fine tuned, the shift in her breathing and the electricity in the small close space between them tipping off his senses. When it happens she sits bolt upright in bed next to him, choking on nothing, fingers clawing at her own throat.

He coaxes her through it like she’s a job, feels a little guilty but he’s seen so many of these, counselled so many trauma victims, he could write a help book. 

“What happened here?” he dares to ask, when the worst of it is over. She’s sitting on the toilet lid, taking slow breaths, as instructed, simmering down nicely. He rests a folded washcloth on the back of her neck, soaked through with cold water and wrung out; the bruising on her neck is blue-green and hellish under the fluorescent scrutiny of the bathroom light.

“His belt. He dragged me. He… he wanted me to open my mouth,” she half explains, her fingers hovering over the marks for a moment. Dean feels his nose wrinkle in sympathy. He’s been choked before, strangled a lot, and it sucks. He doesn't know what to say. It’s much easier to guide and reassure safety when there’s been an actual monster to blame and he’s killed it. _ People_, man. He kisses the top of her head, wonders if he’s ever gonna get the full story out of her. He’s not sure he _ wants _ the full story. 

“Let’s get you back to bed.”

*

He’s awoken by her animated voice. He slowly sits up in bed and watches her pace in front of the window, hotel phone dangling from one hand and the receiver snagged between ear and shoulder. She’s a fast talker and whoever is on the other line is getting both barrels. 

“Just be a decent human being for once in your miserable little life and stop fucking me around, Natasha. Yeah, you heard me. No, I can’t hold. This is a family emergency. Are those new tits making you slow?”

He shakes his head at her when she catches his eye and she promptly flips him the bird. When he gets out of the bathroom after an amazing shower, still hot and damp under yesterday’s clothes, she’s sitting at the desk, phone back in its cradle. She has a plan, she announces. She’s taken legal advice. She can fix everything.

“I just need some clean panties, a disposable camera, and a ride to New York?” she says with a sweet cajoling tone. She picks her jeans up off the carpet (the knees are ripped and not in a fashionable way) pulls a fan of dollars out of the pocket and tosses it into his lap. There’s about eighteen hundred left. 

Dean weighs it up; it might be easier for them to split up and travel alone if the cops are looking for them as a couple, although he thinks it’s unlikely a low level APB would have reached any sheriffs this far north. It’s her they’re after really, and he could put her on a bus or train to New York for less than fifty bucks. 

“That’s a fourteen hundred mile drive,” he tells her, saying the words in some semblance of protest even though he already knows he’s going to see this through ‘til the end, ‘til he knows she’s safe. It’s what he does, after all. She’s trouble and she dug her own rabbit hole to fall down but she didn't suck her own dick in the diner that night; he has to take responsibility for his part in this shit show of a situation, too. It’s not like he wanted his dick or his face all over the tabloids either, Dad would have fucking _ flipped_.

He checks his watch, ten after nine. 

“You’ve got five minutes to get dressed and get your ass in the car,” he concedes, sounding exactly like his father to his own ears, and she’s moving before he’s even finished the sentence. 

*

She complains about the route he takes, and complains about his music, and then starts to complain about him expecting her to buy panties from Wal-Mart when Dean pulls them into the carpark on their way out of town and he literally claps his hand over her mouth to shut her up. He tells her he’s not having any of her spoiled rich white girl bullshit and she drops in to a dumbfounded silence, gives him an assessing look. He tells her he needs to use the payphone and she has ten minutes to get everything they need. 

“You’re gonna need some pain relief, eye drops, a scarf or something too, we don't need you drawing any attention… and get me some beef jerky,” he shouts after her. He gets the birds again, for his trouble. 

This time it’s Sam who picks up on the second ring.

“Someone spotted your car involved in a hit and run, down near Corpus Alice. Persons in the vehicle matched you and the girl’s description,” Sam tells him. 

“_Someone_?” Dean asks, grinning in to the receiver. 

“A concerned local citizen,” Sam says and Dean can _ hear _ the smirk in his voice. 

“Take it easy on dad while I’m gone,” Dean says, “and eat your vegetables.” He hears Sam snort a laugh for half a second before the line disconnects. 

Once she’s back he takes photographs for her right there in the parking lot, in the natural daylight, cataloguing her injuries as she lifts and moves her clothes to reveal them. The scrapes, bruises and welts span most of her body; he photographs clinically, wincing, uses nineteen out of their twenty four photo limit. 

They get back on the road and she pulls out her purchases one by one like a show and tell, large paper bags rattling like thunder in the confines of the car. The boxers she’s bought him are a five pack, white with red love hearts. He has to admire her sarcasm. 

*

Fifty miles down the road, he pops the glove box for a map and the Beretta is there in all her polished marble glory looking exactly like a thousand question headache Dean doesn't need. 

“Is that yours?” Cee asks immediately and he mentally kicks himself.

“Yes,” he replies, darting a glance to try to gauge her level of interest. He doesn't want to have to bullshit her but he will. 

“Is it loaded?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he repeats, and she closes the glove box. He waits but there aren't any more questions and he doesn't know whether to be relieved or suspicious.

  
  


*

He hasn't touched her really, or tried to, and he doesn’t think he should now that he’s working, although she makes it difficult for him to remain professional. She changes her clothes in the passenger seat while he drives; her vest up and off and then her jeans, wriggled side to side and down her legs.

Just because she’s a job now doesn't mean he can switch it off just like that. He’s only human and he’s never been good at resisting temptation when it comes to girls. It takes every ounce of will power he has not to look again when in his peripheral he sees that she’s sliding her black panties down her thighs too. He keeps his eyes resolutely on the road ahead, heart pounding. 

When he finally lets himself glimpse over she has on leggings and oversized t-shirt. She reaches up and tucks her discarded, _ dirty_, panties under the passenger side visor and sails a knowing look in his direction. He feels the tension in the car like steam in a sauna. 

He mentally chastises himself for even thinking about it; she’s been through a trauma, she’s a victim. It’s clear she’s in no shape for anything. The camera clicks distinctively to his right and he looks just as she lowers it, absently winds it on with her thumb.

*

They stop to eat at a diner just inside the Illinois border, he needs a break from driving and figures there’s little risk. Their waitress, Darlene, is _ adorable _and Dean turns the charm up to eleven; his favourite game. He makes a lot of heavy eye contact, bites his lip, even busts out a wink or two and she eats it up. Cee sits opposite him in their booth, hood up and sunglasses on, completely invisible. 

Darlene giggles and sucks at her pen cap, zips it along her lower lip before she takes down their double order of pancakes with a side of bacon and her largest, blackest cup of coffee. 

Dean eats quickly, hungrier than he thought he was, and Cee pushes her (pretty much untouched) stack towards him too in preparation for his seconds. She shakes out two white pills and washes them down with a big drink from his coffee mug, taps her nails against it rhythmically; a warning, he realises later, like a big cat sharpening its claws.

He asks for the cheque and Darlene pouts as she tops off his mug for the final time, stands with one leg bent, body swaying a little so her knee brushes his, back and forth. She’s standing so close that it’s a miracle the hot coffee doesn't scald her when Cee reaches over and tips the cup; it hits the tiles below them with a crash and Darlene jumps back with an automatic yelp.

Dean moves for napkins, “_what the fuck? _” halfway out of his mouth when Cee’s hands tighten around his wrists. 

“I didn't mean to,” she hisses at him, a panicked whimper across the table between them. “Please, just don't hit me again!”

He stares at her in abject horror, feels his jaw drop open in shock. He hadn't even noticed her take the sunglasses off. Darlene’s wide eyes dart between them, then down to where his hands have clenched themselves into angry fists on the table top. She bolts back to the kitchen at light speed. 

Cee smiles at him sweetly, flicks her sunglasses back on, and slides out of the booth. _ Fucking bitch_. 

*

It’s just before midnight when he finally stops, vision blurring and yawns popping his jaw every five minutes. Cee pulls a distasteful face as they glide in to the motel parking lot. 

“Ew,” she sneers quietly at the hookers on the street outside. Dean rolls his eyes; she’s lucky he’s not just pulling them over and making her sleep in the car. He offers her first shower and she tiptoes around dramatically in the dingy bathroom, suspicious like something is gonna jump out and bite her. He’s almost asleep in front of the TV when she calls for him ten minutes later and he gets up blearily, knocks his forehead against the bathroom door frame. 

“What is it now, princess? Towels haven't been folded into swans for you?”

She’s wrapped in a small greying towel, staring at his reflection in the steamy mirror above the sink. She turns around to face him and gestures to her eye.

“Can you help me with the eye drops, smartass?”

He helps her. Has her sit on the counter top and look up. The swelling has gone down some and he can see a sliver of eyeball behind her eyelids, bloodshot but intact. He mops the excess drops off her cheek carefully with tissue and she stops him when he tries to step away. Dean feels heat run through his body, his dick instantly interested. 

“You have a concussion,” he points out in protest as her lips scrape over his jaw, little hands sliding under his shirt. She smells all warm and flowery and her damp thighs feel damn good along his hips, squeezing him, and his resolve starts to crumble like chalk. 

“I don't have any condoms,” he tries, last ditch. It’s his ace card. 

“We don’t need ‘em,” she whispers into his ear and the soft hiss of it blows a wave of tingles down his spine. His dick is super interested in _that_ and he almost groans, hears his father’s voice in his head this time, _that girl is trouble with a_ _capital T, son_. The towel starts to pool down her body until he can see her whole back in the mirror, the sweet feminine hourglass shape. She kisses his neck gently, presses her bare tits against his chest, points of her nipples dragging provocatively against his t-shirt. 

Look, okay, there’s only so much a man can take. 

“Bed,” he decides, lifting her off the counter. “Now.”

*

He hears the camera click and the room lights up, a phosphorus flare over his head, he opens his eyes and is blind for a moment. Luckily he doesn't need his vision for the task at hand. He oscillates his fingers inside her, a quick soaked push pull, mirrors the movement with his tongue flattened against her clit. She moves against his face wantonly, thighs falling further open around his head, whole body shuddering on the mattress.

She kisses the taste of herself off his mouth when he crawls up and presses his body against hers, fully cradled, while his cock slips maddeningly against the slick heat between her legs. She moans against his lips, scissors her legs around him in frustration, searching. When his cock finally snags, pushes in, he moves so he can watch; she takes it so perfectly, beautiful stretch, muscles struggling and fluttering to accommodate. He has to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe. 

“Oh my god,” she whispers, strained, when he’s fully sheathed inside, staring up at him in total disbelief, muscles quivering all around him like her body doesn’t know how to cope. He touches his forehead to hers, has to take a second before he dares to move. They have intense sex, like everything else, that he later learns to refer to as ‘life affirming’.

Her body yields to him, becoming smoother with every stroke until they find their pace, fast and hot. They fuck the way he’s only ever seen in movies, both of them unable to stop once they start, insatiable for each other like a floodgate has been burst open. 

“Are you close?” he pants, because he is, and he can't slow down. He glances down at where their bodies are crashing together, pressure building impossibly again, and he changes the angle a little to let her arm snake down between them like a lifeline without interrupting the firm throbbing rhythm he’s got going.

“Yeah. _ Yes_. Don’t stop,” she begs him, words whined out, fingers blurring wetly over her clit, big tits bouncing with every thrust. When she starts to come apart around him he buries his face in her neck, lets pure base instinct and movement take over and their bodies lock together tightly, molten heat and ecstasy soaring to a crest and lapping, lapping over him. 

Afterwards she lies flat with arms outstretched, pillows long lost, glazed eyes on the ceiling fan. Breathless and stunned. Dean mirrors her on his side of the bed; he can't move, can’t speak. He can feel her leg against his under the covers, vibrating with aftershocks.

“That was...” she eventually exhales, turning her head to face him, astonished. He doesn't know what the rest of her sentence was going to be, lost in the humid air between them, but he agrees. Her hand finds his under the sheet, sweaty fingers lacing together unseen, the touch of their palms against one another feeling raw and intimate and he closes his eyes, starts to drift. 

The rap on the door makes them both startle and physically shoot upright. The door to the room reverberates in its frame, chain rattling, and Dean has a hand on his Bowie from inside his boot before another shower of bangs rains down. 

“Keep it down in there, goddamnit!” A guy pounds angrily from the other side of their door. Clearly a disgruntled neighbour; the walls are thin here and their headboard sure did just take a pounding. Dean deflates, dropping his knife, his whole body pulsing with adrenaline. He watches Cee’s expression morph from fear to shock to _ furious. _ Afterglow ruined. 

“Go away, asshole!” she yells in response, starting to untangle from the sheets to get up. Dean grabs her wrist and yanks her back, chuckling out his relief even as the obnoxious knocking continues. 

“Fuck you, whore!” the guy hollers and then there’s a low thud like a kick. Dean marches to the door and jerks it open, snake strike quick. 

“_Dude_!” Dean snaps at the guy. Looks like a trucker maybe, taller than Dean but kind of weedy, fist still poised mid-thump like something out of a cartoon. Not a threat. His mouth opens and closes, suddenly mute, eyes skittering quickly over Dean’s body then behind him to Cee who’s sitting up in bed, sheets around her waist. 

Dean knows there’s no danger here; in about two minutes this guy is gonna be back in his room and he might remember Cee’s amazing tits and the sound of her sex soaked begging echoing through the cheap motel walls but he won’t remember their faces. Dean lets him look for a three second count and then clears his throat pointedly. 

“We gonna have a problem here?” he challenges, taking a step forward, using his own nakedness as a threat. Nobody wants to fight a naked guy. 

“No problem,” the guy concedes. He takes a step back, and another, and then he’s gone. Dean lets the door tap closed, puts the chain on, and then the room erupts with their laughter. Dean makes it back to the bed and faceplants to muffle himself, feels Cee drape over his back happily, ribs shaking. 

*

They lose almost half a day in bed the next day but Dean considerately stuffs a pillow between the wall and the headboard. As he fucks her, he pushes his fingers into Cee’s mouth and presses down on her velvety tongue when she gets too loud and she sucks on them for him obediently. 

When she’s on top, he runs his hands up her body, squeezes her bruised neck delicately, power held in check, and feels her muscles throb on him, her pounding rhythm faltering for a half a beat. It’s so wrong. He pulls her forward, meeting her halfway to mash their mouths together messily. He feels the vibrations through the palm of his hand on her throat when she moans out his name and stiffens everywhere as she comes. 

The room is a crime scene investigator’s wet dream Dean surmises as they finally leave. He doesn't even want to think about the DNA left behind on those sheets. He leaves a twenty dollar tip for the maids as an apology. 

*

They last for two hours back on the road before Cee makes him pull over. She strips down to just a thong in the front seat while he watches, feeling like he’s in one of his high school wet dreams. He tells her as much and she climbs over to straddle his lap, kisses him desperately. A semi roars past his window and rocks the whole Impala and she tugs at his belt, rubs his dick through his jeans, her urgency making his head spin. 

The crotch of her underwear gets pushed aside, she sinks herself down onto his cock even as it makes her hiss in pain, sore from overuse. She leans back against the steering wheel and starts to bounce, using his shoulders for leverage and Dean flattens his feet, fucks her back leisurely, palms her tits and tries to catch a nipple in his mouth, gets handfuls of her body everywhere he can.

A red pick up truck flies by and the dirt it kicks up sprays in to Dean’s window. 

“Oh, fuck,” Cee gasps. “I think I’m gonna come.” And he gets it then, that she’s getting off on being totally exposed, the realisation coils in him, sparks his own hunger. 

“Yeah? You want me to come? Want me to come inside you right now?” he asks, and feels a flood inside her body, her little muscles trembling, she nods at him. “You want me to come in you out here where anyone could see, huh? Broad daylight? You fucking slut. Say it.” 

She turns her face away from him, eyes squeezed shut and bottom lip red, bitten raw, resisting his order. His own orgasm starts to rise, starts to tear through him and he quickens the pace for them both, grabbing her ass and squeezing hard, slamming her body down on to himself over and over. 

“I want you to come in me,” she pants dutifully, voice high, breaking. “_Please, Dean_.”

He feels her cunt clench, stinging tightness, and pulls her down as hard as he can, hears her scream his name somewhere in the distance as he bottoms out, the world turning white for a second as his orgasm explodes. 

*

He starts feeling stupid about half an hour after they’re back on the road, regretting his words and actions sourly and making himself overthink. He takes a sly look to his right and she’s curled against the passenger door, eyes closed but not asleep; the distance between them on the bench seat seems immense. There had been an unhappy crease between her eyebrows as she had climbed off him quickly, hand cupped over herself protectively, and some blood that made him pause when he had been cleaning himself up, after.

He grits his teeth, needs to man the fuck up.

“Back there, I’m sorry that I got a little…” _ rough, too much, inappropriate_. All of the above? Sorry I called you a slut and fucked you so hard it caused a tear? 

“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” he says, and he means it.

He keeps a steady speed, meets her eye for a second when she looks over at him. Clears his throat. It was hot and dirty in the moment but Dean hasn't had much experience on how to act _ afterwards_. He’s used to sobering up after a hook up and making a quick and face saving exit. They’ve got another 700 miles to go before they hit NYC and if he just blew it, things are gonna get pretty uncomfortable pretty quick. 

“You really don’t need to apologise to me, Dean, like ever,” she says, a moment of genuine fondness showing in her voice, on her face. It’s rare that she uses his name (when they aren’t fucking) and he likes the way it sounds in her accent, likes it better than _ asshole, smartass, loser _ at any rate. His relief is palpable, loosens his shoulders and knees instantly. Her fingers comb across the back of his head, further reassurance, and he leans in to the touch unabashedly. After a couple of minutes her affection makes him bolder and he figures that now is a good a time as any to ask a real douche baggy question while he has the chance. 

“So, we aren't using condoms... and you aren't on the pill… so?”

The warmth from her palm disappears from the back of his neck abruptly. He braces himself for incoming missiles but she grabs his right hand. He has to make a conscious effort not to snatch it back and just allow himself to be guided instead. She shifts close enough and pushes his fingertips against the soft skin on her inner bicep; he feels a small foreign object inside her arm, it pops around under the pressure of his probing and makes him a little squeamish. 

“Subdermal contraceptive implant,” she explains, letting him go. “I got us covered, Casanova.”

There's something to be said for rich girls, Dean is learning. They always have a neat trick up their sleeve. 

*

They pass through the middle of Ohio and Dean stops at a roadside gas station and diner, the miles and the lack of sleep making him lethargic. The sun has just gone down and there is a slip of red left in the sky like a bloodstain. The place is almost deserted and it’s cold when he gets out of the car, it seeps into all his gaps and makes him shiver. 

He shakes Cee awake and she’s groggier than usual too, slow to wake up. “C’mon we gotta eat,” he insists. He can smell their sex in the car still. “You gotta wash up,” he tells her unkindly, even though in his lizard brain the fact that she’s covered in his scent makes him a little excited. 

“Fuck off,” she grouses, but she stretches out of the car, lopes to the restroom as soon as they enter the diner. They’re the only customers save for a floppy haired young guy playing solitaire at the end of the counter, soup cup steaming next to him, country music twanging gently from the speakers. 

Dean orders a burger and a milkshake, eggs benedict for her after a moment of complete puzzlement, and he’s already halfway finished his meal by the time she joins him. Two white pills, washed down with a sip of his shake and then she starts to push her food around the plate, smiles at him when she notices he’s paying attention.

“Had to toss my underwear,” she says with a little wrinkle of her nose and a shrug in an obvious attempt to distract him.

“You’ve barely eaten in days, what’s your deal with food?” he asks bluntly, too exhausted for games. Maybe if she wasn't so hungry she wouldn't be so angry all the time. Dean gets it, he gets cranky when he’s hungry too, which is at least seven or eight times a day, and especially when he was a teenager. The question seems to startle her and he can see her mind racing for an answer, an excuse, a sarcastic comment. He takes a huge bite of his patty and waits patiently, staring her down while he chews with his mouth open. 

She pushes the plate away a couple of inches, then pulls it back with a sigh like she’s changed her mind, takes a delicate forkful and looks everywhere but at him as she chews and swallows, repeats the motion until she’s had four modest mouthfuls (Dean counts) then she slides her plate to his side of the table, along with the pepper. 

“You have an eating disorder,” Dean tells her, grinding the pepper on to the eggs, taking her fork. She rolls her eyes but he sees the colour in her face, blush clouding up her neck to her cheeks. 

“So what?” she explodes angrily, clearly embarrassed, knuckles peeking out of the sleeve of her hoodie and turning white on the table top. “I’m not hungry. My jaw hurts and I’m not hungry, okay? You keep fuckin’ ordering for me but I’m not hungry.” 

She’s lying. Dean knows her tells by now; she clenches her fists when she’s lying. Tucks her hair behind her ears when she says something as a joke that’s actually a truth. Taps her fingernails on any hard surface she can find when she’s angry or scheming. 

He doesn't understand how anyone could deny themselves food; it’s always been one of Dean’s greatest pleasures and luxuries in life. He’s _ always _ hungry. Never met a carb he didn’t love. 

“You should eat,” he offers, voice deliberately soft, while he finishes her eggs. Feels a little guilty for cornering her; it occurs to him that she’s clearly not used to people paying attention to her habits and figures he should back off a little before she returns the favour and starts asking him questions. 

“Well, I can’t right now,” she replies simply and she gets up, goes to the counter. She asks the middle-aged owner slash waiter for two tall black coffees to take out and their cheque too. Ends the conversation. 

“That’s quite the shiner you have there, young lady,” the waiter observes loudly as he hands over the cardboard cups, his eyes scan Dean from head to toe as he joins them at the counter, the implication more than obvious. Dean braces himself for whatever nasty trick Cee is gonna pull this time, moodily fishes for his wallet. 

“Yes, sir. I didn't put the lotion in the basket,” she says, voice scratchy and flat, grabbing their drinks. Dean slaps a twenty down, bites the inside of his cheek and nods an awkward goodbye as he holds open the door for her, bubbles out a laugh as soon as he steps outside behind her and she looks back, grins at him over her shoulder.

Dean finishes his coffee in two gulps while he gasses the Impala up, gearing up for a long journey. They make out like teenagers against the side of the car as he waits for the tank to fill, slow torturous kisses that make him half hard in his jeans and he grabs her ass through her leggings, squeezes almost cruelly, loving that there’s nothing on underneath, gives the disapproving diner attendant a nice little show. 

They have lost time to make up so he turns Skynrd up loud to match the roar of the engine and drives in to the night, lets the Impala stretch her legs. Cee offers to take over for a while and he gives her his most incredulous face. 

“And have my car end up at the bottom of a swimming pool? I don’t think so, honey. I’m good. You get some sleep.”

She rolls her eyes, then, like an afterthought, leans over and kisses his cheek, plants her still-hot coffee cup in his cup holder as a gift. 

*

They make it to New York at around 6am and the congestion slows them to a crawl, it gets on Dean’s already fraying nerves, road rage rising like a fast tide every time some asshole cuts him off. The breath-taking view as they cross the George Washington Bridge lulls them both in to an appeased silence and awe for a short while. Dean’s never seen it before, let alone driven across; the colossal steel archways of the suspension towers make him think of cathedrals, like the entire structure is worthy of worship. Sammy would love it. 

_ Of course _ Cee’s family have a penthouse in an apartment building on the Upper East Side which she directs him to in perfunctory fashion, any humour or sarcasm vacuumed away now they’ve landed back in the real world. The city bustles, people and noise everywhere, it takes them almost forty five minutes to get through a few blocks, the Impala and her distinctive V8 snarl sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of yellow cabs and compact European smart cars, making people’s heads turn. 

The parking garage under the building is gated and Cee has to press a bell for manual assistance, key card still back in Texas and never to be seen again. He can feel her stress while they wait, so tense that she jumps when he puts a hand on her leg. 

“I need a cigarette,” she says, squeezing his hand back once, knee bouncing. 

“No you don’t. You’re home now,” Dean tries. “Everything’s gonna be fine.” 

The withering look she gives him would make a lesser man cower in fear but Dean just smiles across the bench seat her, as antagonising as he can make it. An entourage of people assemble at the gate, men in security uniforms and women in pencil skirts. As soon as the Impala is waved through they crowd the passenger side, open Cee’s door for her. Dean watches as arms fly in like tentacles to grab her. 

They’re escorted to an elevator and Dean stands at the back, mostly ignored, and listens to the chatter, their inane questions and chastisements. Cee spits out orders and rebukes like some kind of military general and he has to smirk at her cutting tone. 

“Enough,” she shouts as the elevator doors swing open to reveal a plush champagne coloured hallway. “We’ve driven all night and we just really need to take a shower and get some sleep right now.”

“That’s not possible, Cecilia,” one of the women replies, sliding her fine gold rimmed glasses down the bridge of her nose to cast a scornful glance at Dean over the top of them. He gives her his ‘how you doin’ eyebrow and her beady eyes narrow wickedly, unimpressed. “Mr Andrew Jackson is waiting in the office to have a meeting with you and _you_ _know_ he _does not_ like to be kept waiting.”

In the office, which may as well be the fucking oval office Dean thinks as he sinks deeper in to his upholstered leather chair, Mr Jackson, the family lawyer, shuffles through their photographs in front of the floor to ceiling windows, eventually places them gently in his alligator skin briefcase on the desk.

The detail that’s required is excruciating, intimate and examining questions repeated over and over again, and Dean feels like every cell in his body is tense and exhausted just from listening. The lawyer is clinical, anatomical, and Cee slips into an almost professional cantation while recounting the events, breaking only once when she’s asked _ whether Uncle Eddie, whilst choking her with his belt to the point of unconsciousness and forcibly thrusting his penis against her face, lips and neck while she fought wildly in resistance, had had an erection or not? _

“What kind of question is that? What the fuck do you think?” she growls, jumping out of her seat to circuit the room, trying to escape the question. Mr Jackson, unphased, waits silently with all the patience of a man being paid $1200 per hour, until she sits back down, blowing out an unsteady breath. 

“Yes. Yes, the sick bastard had a fucking _ erection _ the entire time,” she finally admits, hands scrubbing over her face, revulsion evident. 

When it’s done, Dean feels cold and drained, a little sick at what they’ve carried with them this whole time. He reaches through the gap between their chairs and hooks a hand between Cee’s knees, steadying the jitters, silently offering. She accepts the offer, fingers lacing through his even as they both avoid eye contact with one another.

“Check your statement and sign if all’s in order,” Mr Jackson says, British accent menacing like every Bond villain Dean has ever heard. He slides paperwork back over the desk and comes around to hand Cee a pen. “Then you just need to decide… Do you want dear Uncle Eddie buried alive or drowned?”

He says it so casually deadpan that Dean doesn't even realise it’s a joke until he notices the corner of Cee’s mouth turn up into a tight smile as her eyes busily scan the paper in front of her.

“I want him fucking cremated,” she declares, wrist flicking a fast signature, and they both look over at Dean with matching curiosity when he huffs out a sour laugh. 

“Excellent choice,” Dean says, irony raining down around him as they don’t get it, a fleeting moment of homesickness washing over him. 

*

The shower in her ensuite is the size of a small room, glass doors and double super pressurised showerheads and a marble seat in case showering makes you so tired you need to take a load off. There’s a small TV mounted in the wall but Dean doesn't try to switch it on, the laws of electricity and water conflicting in his brain. He lathers up with the most normal soap he can find and spends some time sniffing the bottles and potions trying to find one that has a hint of masculinity when her hears the door, feels the two second draught, before Cee’s arms wrap around him from behind. 

“I’ve ordered you a pie from this pizza place down in Hell’s Kitchen, you’ll love it, and I’ve sent your laundry out so you’re gonna have to stay naked for an hour or two.”

“Not a problem,” Dean says, feeling woozy with lack of sleep, hot stream from the shower making him loose and agreeable. 

“I’ve left some extra cash in your car, too, for gas or whatever, for when you decide to leave, but you can stay for as long as you want,” she rambles, he can feel her jaw moving against his back as she talks, her ear against his spine. “Use the phone in the office if you need to make calls, it’s a secure line.”

He turns himself in a circle, leans down to kiss her to shut her up, squeezes her wet body against his and feels his cock start to stir, waking up. It becomes frantic within a minute, not long before Cee’s back is stuck against the tiles, knees hitched up around Dean’s waist, arms looped around his neck and hanging on like her life depends on it. The two jet streams spray noisily next to them, forgotten, making clouds. Everything’s soaked, soapy, and they have no traction, his cock slips in every direction apart from exactly where he needs it go, bumping clumsily against her body, a frustrating tease, then it glides _ back _ too far and she freezes, catches his eye. 

“Are you, um… Are you trying to put it...?”

“No,” he says quickly, then notices her face is still open with lust, breath shaky. “I mean… unless you want me to?” he amends, feels his cock pulse at just the thought, knows she can feel it too, snugged perfectly between her ass cheeks. Cee wavers, blinks the droplets off her eyelashes, he can see her weighing it up in her mind so decides to tip the scale, lets her legs down and bends to kiss her again, sucks the shell of her ear into his mouth.

“Turn around,” he instructs and she only hesitates for a moment before she does, pulls all of her wet hair over one shoulder and braces herself for him, palms flat against the wall. Dean snags a bottle of oily moisturiser from the rack, nudges her ankles a little further apart and she frowns at him over her shoulder even as she goes up on her tiptoes. The image she creates makes him wanna tip his head back and silently give thanks to whichever god gifted the planet with hot nubile chicks who’re willing to try anal. 

“That product costs two hundred bucks a bottle,” she says and Dean bites the side of her neck, squirts at least half of it in to his hand, coats his cock and fingers generously with it. 

“Shut up,” he tells her, starting with a gentle rub against her hole, tip of his middle and index fingers probing, firmer and more insisting until he has one inside, and then, slowly, the other. He fucks her steadily like that until he hopes it’s enough. Cee’s breathing goes controlled and he skates a palm down the side of her body, over silky curves and around to brush the pads of his fingers across her clit, gets himself in position and pushes a little experimentally.

“You gotta relax,” he whispers into her ear, leaves hot open mouthed kisses on the side of her face, quickens the circles he’s making on her clit. It’s not the best angle and there’s a lot of resistance which he would usually take as a challenge but he doesn't know if either of them are up to that right now… he’s contemplating throwing in the towel and just moving things to the bedroom for a little light missionary instead when Cee must feel the pause, she spreads a little wider, takes a deep breath. 

“I’ve never done this,” she confesses quietly, and turns her head so she can brush wet lips against his. 

“You want to, right?” he asks against her mouth, feels her nod, their noses bumping, and his cock jumps again, over eager. Cee takes his hand and pushes it down between her legs, covers it until he’s sliding two fingers inside her, the heel of his hand massaging relentlessly against her pelvic bone and everything in that region. 

“It’ll be easier if you make me come first,” she says, flashing him a hooded look over her shoulder, sucking two of her own fingers before starting to work on herself. He has to laugh, delighted with the student becoming the teacher power struggle still going back and forth between them. He shoves his fingers up inside her hard enough that she loses her breath, pistons his arm and starts jerking off against her ass so she can feel every movement. 

“Can’t wait to see you take my cock in your ass like the dirty little slut you are,” he tells her, voice a rumble, right against her ear. It's nothing but the truth and the reaction is instant and expected; a hot flood, a pulse, between her thighs and curses dripping from her lips, almost _ too easy _ Dean thinks as he bodily flattens her, pins her against the tiles. 

“Fuck you,” she grits out, cheek against the wall, pushing back against him greedily. He presses the head of his cock between her asscheeks, pushes until it breaches, insane burning tightness, holds there for a second for them both to adjust before he inches forward a little further until there's a soft, hurt sound. 

“Oh, _ fuck _ you,” she says again, pained, eyes squeezed shut. He pulls out slowly and her whole body sags a little, she watches him ominously over her shoulder as he squeezes out more lube, pretty much empties the bottle, but she pushes her ass back again as he lines up again, arches her back, starts touching herself again.

_"_Good girl," Dean breathes, grateful, as he holds her ass firmly, guides himself cautiously back in to her, extra slick creating a smoother glide this time. They both pant audibly as he bottoms out, pelvis flush against her ass, the narrow sensation scorching him. He hears himself groan when he starts to pull back, the vision of it alone enough to make his balls tighten dangerously. He manages a handful of sure, long strokes that drive feathery sounds from Cee’s throat that he’s never heard before it’s too much. He pulls out to come, wants to see it happen, and watches himself jizz all over her pretty round ass.

“Fuck you, Dean,” she moans, out of breath, when he collapses against her lazily, his hand slapping the wall when he catches himself, splashing them both. 

They dry off with the fluffiest, softest towels he’s ever seen and climb into her bed naked. The sheets feel heavy and cushioned, feel like they’re made of satin against his bare skin. 

“That was awesome,” he sighs dreamily as she tucks herself into the side of his body, under one arm. He feels her breath blow across his chest as she laughs but if she has anything else to add he’s asleep before he hears it. 

*

He half wakes up to a dim pinkish glow and a dark room, alone in the big bed with no sense of the time or even what day it is. The unmistakable clack clack of keys tapping draws his attention to the desk in the corner. Cee must hear him roll over and she gets up, bright white square of her laptop screen left behind, hem of his flannel brushing her thighs as she pads towards him and hypnotising him a little in his still dazed state. She plants a chaste kiss on his forehead. 

“Ready for beer and the best pizza in New York?” she asks, heading to the door. He stretches on the mattress and even at full span none of his limbs reach the edges of the bed. He thinks maybe it’s what heaven feels like. 

*

The next time he wakes up he’s totally alone and the blinds are open, sharp morning sun beams splitting between them through the long windows. All of his clothes are clean and neatly folded inside a laundry bag on top of the dresser, even his socks look like they’ve been ironed and meticulously rolled. 

After he’s dressed he finds Cee in the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee leading him there like a nasal treasure hunt, carrying his silent feet over the plush carpeted hallways until he reaches the source. Cee reaches for a cup when she sees him and he seats himself on a stool while she pours; she’s wearing makeup, her eye looking almost normal, concealed expertly. 

There’s a large granite top island with a platter of colourful fruit and pastries in the centre and Dean shakes his head, marvelling at how the other half lives. 

“Dean, this is Maria,” Cee says, cup clinking down in front of him as she gestures to a woman dressed in a typical maid’s uniform, frilly apron and all, who’s sitting at the island with them. She has red puffy eyes, eyeliner all smudged, tissues strewn about. Clear evidence of a good girl talk. 

“Hey,” Dean greets, sipping his caffeine; it tastes fucking divine, even better than it smells, rich and smooth and he hears them chuckle at whatever euphoric expression must appear on his face. 

“Oh, he’s handsome,” Maria drawls, dragging the words out. Dean smirks at her, beams up at Cee who rolls her eyes hard. “Thank you, Dean, for bringing our girl home,” Maria says, voice softening in to a sweet Latin lilt, her eyes starting to brim with tears again. 

Dean salutes at her with his cup, always surprised and never knowing how to handle raw gratitude, and excuses himself to use the phone. He’s smart enough to know you should never get caught between two crying women, so he leaves them to it. 

*

Sam picks up after three rings and Dean can hear the road in the background before either of them say anything, engines guffawing and the slip slip of tyres on tarmac. 

“Dude, where the hell are you? Is everything okay?” Sam bursts out and Dean feels a stab of guilt for not calling sooner. 

“I’m in New York, everything’s fine, Sammy,” Dean tells him. He glances around the lavish office, kicks his feet up on to the dark mahogany desk. There are a set of gold Parker pens on the shelf next to him that are probably worth more than his car. “Dude, you should see where I am, these people are rich. Like royalty rich.” 

He hears Dad mumble something on the line, speaking to Sam, imagines them riding in the truck together in close quarters and annoying the living hell out of each other. 

“Dad wants to know if the job is done, cause he caught a nasty little case in Owensboro and we’re heading there now. We’re a day out.” 

Dean does a quick map in his head, feels his whole body ache at the thought of another eight hundred mile drive. _ Nasty _ is a strong word though, no way he’s gonna leave them short on a three man job. He quickly does the math. If he leaves soon he can be there by tomorrow morning. 

“Ten four, tell Dad I’m good to go. I’ll see you guys there in the morning,” he says, and hears Sam start to recite his message to Dad before the line cuts off. 

*

“You’re leaving today?” Cee asks, sitting on the maroon Chesterfield couch and watching him intently, pulling at the hem of her tennis dress. 

“In the next hour or two. My dad caught a job down in Kentucky and I need to be there. We gotta go where the work is. Kind of the family business,” Dean explains, trying to avoid lying as much as he can. He sits on the desk, eyeing a humidor that he knows without even opening is bound to be chock full of quality cigars. When he looks back at her she has a longing look on her face but she wipes it off quickly. 

“Probably for the best. My parents are flying in later this afternoon and my mom is…well, she can be difficult,” she says. 

_ The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree_, Dean thinks. 

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t do parents,” he tells her firmly, lifting the lid on the box, curiosity getting the better of him. He’s never heard of the brand inside, “_Arturo Fuente _” but it’s obvious they’re expensive. 

Cee joins him at the desk, picks up an immaculately wrapped individual cigar out of the box and rolls it under her nose, inhales deeply and then holds it out to him, invites him to do the same. It smells of opulence. 

“Got a light?” Cee asks, grinning pure mischief at him. 

She takes him to the roof where there’s an unobstructed and breath-taking view of the highest reaches of Central Park. There’s fake grass on the ground and lawn furniture that’s screwed down and when he nears the wall at the edge and looks below, the street looks like its made of Legos, makes him dizzy. The wind flaps his t-shirt against him like a warning and he retreats back to the pic-nic table. 

They pass the cigar back and forth, blowing out flush plumes of blue purple smoke. The taste of the spicy tobacco rolls around in his mouth, stings his nostrils. He gives in and asks how much when they’ve burned about half way through and both had enough. 

“These are thirty thousand a box,” Cee says, voice a little hoarse and smirks when his eyes widen. Dean shakes his head, disgusted and overcome, and she leans in to him, stretches up to kiss him. Their shared taste makes it hard to figure out whose tongue is whose at first. 

What starts on the roof predictably ends in the bedroom, their clothes littering the stairwell and hallways like a trail of breadcrumbs. Dean fucks her hard and deliberately measured, with his eyes open, cataloging every movement, every bounce, every sound, trying to take in as much as he can. Liquid heat pools with every deep thrust and she stares back at him, eye contact so unrelenting it makes him feel like his nerves are being touched with a live wire, electricity sparking and snapping between them. 

He burrows in to her when he comes, breathes his satisfaction in to the juncture of her shoulder and neck. He stays in the position for a little too long afterwards, the come down feeling bitter sweet. If Cee notices he’s dragging it out, she doesn't hinder, just nuzzles the side of his face, kisses at the hair behind his ear holds him tightly with her whole body. 

*

Cee escorts him down to the garage, the elevator ride long and teetering on the verge of awkward. Dean sucks at goodbyes.

“You got plans to stay in the city?” he asks, small talk employed. She hums an affirmative.

“Yeah, I start at Columbia U in a couple of weeks. Architecture, visual design, all that stuff… you aren't the college type, I’m guessing?” she says with a smile, and takes a wide step closer to him so she can reach up to wrap her arms around his neck. 

“I barely finished high school,” he says, he can’t think of anything worse than wasting away sitting through hours of boring lectures, writing endless papers. Cee laughs a little, rises like a ballerina up on her tiptoes to kiss him. 

She hovers as he throws his laundry bag in the trunk, tells him again that she’s put extra cash in the glove box, tells him the best route to take if he’s heading south out of the city, reaches into the passenger side and carefully places the food parcel Maria insisted on packing for him. 

Then there’s one last long kiss on the lips and she studies his face for a few moments, cups his chin and runs an uncharacteristically soft thumb along his jaw. 

“I’ll get the gate for you,” she says, and when she walks away to the office she doesn't look back. 

When he turns the key in the ignition the Impala rumbles to life, fills the whole garage with her thunder. 

*

Sam slams the passenger side door after he throws his huge body in to the car, suspension dipping under his weight. Dean swears the kid’s grown half a foot in the few days since they last saw each other. 

“Dude, watch it,” Dean snaps. 

Dad slams the trunk behind them, makes Dean grit his teeth ‘cause it ain’t like he can yell at _ Dad_. He climbs into the back seat, nods a quiet greeting at Dean in the rearview mirror.

“It smells like money and sex in here,” Sam says, sniffing the air delicately. He grins at Dean and heaves his pack over into the back. Dean feels the corner of his mouth twitch up as he pulls them away from the curb. Sam looks good, red cheeked and bright eyed. Dad looks worn out, tired in his crow’s feet.

“That’s funny, you know… for you,” Dean says. “Now that you mention it though…” He reaches over and pops open the glove box, lets the stack of bills inside speak for itself. Dean doesn't even know how much is there anymore but it looks like a lot. He takes out his sunglasses, low winter sun searing his vision through the windshield, and leaves the cash for Sam to handle. 

“Wow,” Sam says, pulling the money out. He starts sorting it methodically like Dean knew he would, all the bills facing the same way, flattening out any wrinkled corners as he counts it in to piles. 

“So how was the road trip anyway?” Sam asks absently, his self imposed task of counting taking up most of his attention, geek personified. 

“Eh, just a job, pretty boring,” Dean says, memories of naked slapping skin and wet tongues, bloodshot eyes and buildings as tall as the sky flipbooking through his mind. Dad snorts from the back and Sam glances at him then, doubtful, and reaches up without looking to flip down his visor, inadvertently creating a small avalanche. Photos and debris tumble down onto his lap, mess up his money pile. 

“What the hell,” Sam says, gathering up the fallen items from the seat, the floor. He sits upright with a pair of small black lace panties hanging off one finger and Dean bites his lip, eyes darting between the underwear and the road. He’d forgotten about those.

“Victoria’s Secret, huh? Yeah, seems ‘pretty boring’, Dean.”

“Sam, I’m sure your brother has a perfectly reasonable explanation for why the extremely traumatised young lady he was supposed to be protecting and providing safe passage to had to take her underwear off in the car… He is a professional, after all.” Dad leans forward, elbows on the back of the driver’s seat, eager to hear. Dean hates it when they join forces to bust his balls, but hey, at least they aren't fighting with each other. 

“Actually, those are mine, thank you very much,” Dean says primly, snatching the offending garment out of Sam’s hand and stuffing it in his jacket pocket. 

“Uh huh,” Sam laughs, wolfish. “Care to explain this?” 

He holds up one of the photos; an image of mostly Dean’s face; his eyes closed, lashes fanned and brows creased in concentration, his skin washed out to off white by the flash, the red of his tongue and open mouth obscene in contrast. Between Cecilia’s spread thighs. Dean hits the brakes and Sam laughs even louder as they all jerk forward, his elbow collides with the dashboard but he still manages to dodge Dean’s first attempt to swipe the photos out of his hand. 

The car idles and Dad makes Sam switch places with him, diplomacy deployed to avoid further violence. Dean scans the pictures while they move around. 

An image of him driving, his right profile, left arm out the window and right hand on the wheel, taken from a passenger side view.

An image of Cee and him (fully clothed, thank fuck) reflected in an over sink mirror in a motel bathroom, she’s smiling, posed, and he’s behind her, his face tucked in to her neck, one hand on her ribcage and the other cupping her crotch. 

The intimate shot of him eating her out, slightly out of focus but it makes his face heat up regardless. 

The last picture is in the same motel bathroom, in the same mirror, just Cee on her own taking the photo, with her shirt lifted up to expose her tits, grin on her face. He feels himself chuckle. He flips the photo over and there’s curly handwriting on the back. Sam leans over the seat obnoxiously and reads the message out loud.

“‘_Dean. Hit me up if you’re ever back in NYC. I will cheat on my rich wall street husband with you anytime. Thank you for saving me. Thank you... for everything. Love, C. _’ Awww Dean, that’s sweet,” he coos, dodging Dean’s swinging elbow. 

“Alright, knock it off,” Dad growls, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks over at Dean expectantly, expression an odd mix of anger and amusement. “If you’re done reading your love letters we need to get going. Poltergeist ain't gonna banish itself.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean slots the pictures in to his door well, shifts back in to drive. He narrows his eyes at Sam in the rear-view, silent threat of revenge, and Sam laughs out loud in his reflection, defiant as always. No wonder Dad’s tired if this is how Sam has been acting while Dean’s been gone. Dean’s missed the kid but he is seriously gonna kick Sam’s overgrown ass next time they spar... and put Nair in his shampoo too for good measure, the little punk.


End file.
